PS Just checked the Orwell diaries blog and he had similar weather "today", but more acceptably it wasn't cold and dark when the hard rain fell in Kent [with snakes].
Since my complaint the sun has come out and Hats and I had a lovely walk and met a cockerpoo, or spoodle, whichever you prefer. P craves one, I had been dismissive, but Chloe was very sweet and scampered gamely around as Hatters bowled her over and tried to roll her creamy, newly trimmed fur in the mud.
Owner - new to the village, otherwise i wouldn't have expected conversation, obviously - has problems in that her husband seems to be allergic to the house they have just moved into. Had to take him to A&E a few days ago, hopefully the surveyor will uncover the sacrificed outsider, or whatever, under the floorboards and all can be exorcised.
Tuesday, 12 August 2008
august
My environment has suddenly changed, which has at least jolted me out of neutral.
It is pouring with rain, and so dark with heavy clouds at 9a.m. that the lights have to go on.
This is August, I cannot believe it.
Already this month is a strange one, everyone with kids goes away, is getting ready to go away, getting over going away. This is pointless to older persons who have just got their garden looking nice, [though actually it is going over a bit now], but one does expect to sit out there beneath the sunshade and read the odd crime story.
But no it is dark, cool and wet.
In a way it is cosy to be in with all the windows pulled shut and the lights beaming out, but it all feels wrong.
Now the wind is gusting and the yews and hollies in the churchyard are writhing in quite an alarming manner. In the garden some of the hollyhocks have bitten the dust/mud and the passion flower I am trying to distract, so the wisteria can take over, is whipping around flinging hard little green fruits [full of pale little seeds], does anyone do anything with them?
The postman has been and gone accompanied by much barking from Hattie. She knows perfectly well who it is but she likes to remind everyone that she may be old and grey, but, like her mistress, she can still raise a racket if need be.
This postman is a locum, and rather than toil round in his baggy shorts, complaining that my herbaceous border gets his legs wet, this one speeds up in his red van and drops a load of pamphlets through the cat flap [we don't have a letter box] and roars off again.
I rarely get mail, as i rarely write letters.
God's business however often appears on the mat - hidden behind the window of an anonymous white envelope, fortunately addressed to the Treasurer of the Church - not me.
It would be disconcerting to actually receive a bill from God[dess] I would welcome the reassurance of a metaphysical being, but quake before its demands no doubt.
It would only end in an argument, there is, after all, much to complain of, despite the get out clause of free will, - starting with the current weather.
It is pouring with rain, and so dark with heavy clouds at 9a.m. that the lights have to go on.
This is August, I cannot believe it.
Already this month is a strange one, everyone with kids goes away, is getting ready to go away, getting over going away. This is pointless to older persons who have just got their garden looking nice, [though actually it is going over a bit now], but one does expect to sit out there beneath the sunshade and read the odd crime story.
But no it is dark, cool and wet.
In a way it is cosy to be in with all the windows pulled shut and the lights beaming out, but it all feels wrong.
Now the wind is gusting and the yews and hollies in the churchyard are writhing in quite an alarming manner. In the garden some of the hollyhocks have bitten the dust/mud and the passion flower I am trying to distract, so the wisteria can take over, is whipping around flinging hard little green fruits [full of pale little seeds], does anyone do anything with them?
The postman has been and gone accompanied by much barking from Hattie. She knows perfectly well who it is but she likes to remind everyone that she may be old and grey, but, like her mistress, she can still raise a racket if need be.
This postman is a locum, and rather than toil round in his baggy shorts, complaining that my herbaceous border gets his legs wet, this one speeds up in his red van and drops a load of pamphlets through the cat flap [we don't have a letter box] and roars off again.
I rarely get mail, as i rarely write letters.
God's business however often appears on the mat - hidden behind the window of an anonymous white envelope, fortunately addressed to the Treasurer of the Church - not me.
It would be disconcerting to actually receive a bill from God[dess] I would welcome the reassurance of a metaphysical being, but quake before its demands no doubt.
It would only end in an argument, there is, after all, much to complain of, despite the get out clause of free will, - starting with the current weather.
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